


A Woman's Weapons

by Lirazel



Category: Benjamin January Mysteries - Barbara Hambly
Genre: Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Female Character of Color, Female Friendship, Gen, Moral Dilemmas, Yuletide, Yuletide 2020, chloe is one of the most competent (read: terrifying) people in new orleans, squint for the bisexual dominique agenda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27919807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lirazel/pseuds/Lirazel
Summary: It should have been more awkward than it was--it should have been unthinkable--having her lover’s wife here in her parlor. But Chloë had a way of refusing to allow for awkwardness by refusing to acknowledge it, and as she settled herself on the striped silk settee and folded her small gloved hands in her lap, she looked as composed as she did anywhere else Dominique had ever seen her. It gave Dominique rather a dizzy feeling.Chloë, Dominique, gossip, code-breaking, burglary, and blackmail.
Relationships: Chloe Viellard & Dominique Viellard
Comments: 18
Kudos: 23
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	A Woman's Weapons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dolorosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dolorosa/gifts).



> Warnings for: canon- and period-typical mentions of violence/abuse and racism.
> 
> Thanks to [Ryfkah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryfkah) for beta-ing. I appreciate it so much!
> 
> A caveat: like my recipient, I haven't read all of the books in the series yet. It's possible that something here will contradict something from later books. If that's the case, I apologize and hope you will forgive me.

When the carriage pulled up outside the rose-colored cottage on Rue Du Maines, it wasn’t yet ten o’clock, and though the sun had long ago risen, the clouds were thick enough that it made little difference. The gas lamps were still lit out in the streets, gold streaks against the dark grey sky: it was a morning to stay abed. Uncharacteristically, Dominique Viellard was awake, though she hadn’t been out of bed for long, and wouldn’t have been out of bed at all if it weren’t for Charmian. The Blue Ribbon Ball the night before had lilted on almost to sunrise, and Dominique had only slept for a few hours before Charmian had crawled out of her trundle into Dominique’s room and clambered up onto the bed. Charmian was not a very loud little girl, but she could be quite insistent when she wanted to be, and Dominique had surrendered to the inevitable, risen to pull on a peignoir, and called for Thérèse to make coffee. 

Mama would not have stood for Dominique rousing her before she woke--the handful of times Dominique had been loud enough to wake her mother had resulted in the back of Mama’s silver hairbrush meeting Dominique’s backside, and she would never have dreamed of entering Mama’s room uninvited, much less climbing into her bed. But though she was grateful that Mama had raised her with the skills and discipline to thrive where she could, she found it difficult to be so severe with her own daughter. Mama insisted that Dominique and Henri both spoiled the girl, but Dominique couldn’t help herself. She didn’t mind missing a little bit of sleep now and then, so long as it didn’t affect her looks. Besides, she would have time this afternoon to nap with Charmian before she began preparations for the night’s festivities. 

So she curled on the settee with her daughter tucked into her side, a colorful storybook open in her lap. The illustrations of princesses and knights were all of white people, but they didn’t look so very much lighter than Charmian with her octoroon complexion, and Charmian could still imagine she was like them. She was too young to know that she wasn’t white and that that mattered, and Dominique would let her live in her fairyland for as long as she could. Even once she was thrust into the real world, Charmian would still need moments of escape. No matter what Mama said, Dominique did not begrudge her daughter her fancies. 

Dominique heard the carriage pull up outside, but as she couldn’t think of anyone she knew who would be visiting her so early in the morning--and in a carriage!--she assumed it was for one of her neighbors. The knock at her bedroom door startled her, and she called for Thérèse, who was ironing one of her gowns, to come and get the door. She read the next page to Charmian without knowing what she read, and Thérèse’s wary face when she came to report did nothing to still her suddenly-thumping heart.

“There’s a lady here to see you, Mamzelle,” Thérèse said, with an odd emphasis on the word ‘lady’ that even Dominique, who was fluent in the nuances of accentuation and gesture, could not quite interpret. Her mind raced, flipping through a catalogue of everyone she knew, discarding possibilities.

“Who is it?” 

“I don’t know, Mamzelle,” Thérèse answered, and that made Dominique tense. “She did not give a name.”

“All right. See her in and take Charmian to Musette.” At the opening peal of her daughter’s whine, Dominique pressed a kiss to her curls. “Musette will give you some king cake, and when Maman is finished visiting with her friend, we will finish the story,” she promised.

The lady Thérèse escorted into the room was very small and wore a veil and mourning dress that communicated little; it could have belonged to any woman of middle to wealthiest class in the city. But when Thérèse had hurried a still-protesting Charmian away and the lady lifted her veil, Dominique leapt to her feet, as shocked as she’d ever been.

“Darling! What _are_ you doing here?” Chloë Villiard’s face was as solemn as it ever was, and though it showed no sign of panic or fear, Dominique couldn’t stop her mind from leaping in one direction. “Is it--is it Henri?”

She never spoke her protector’s name to his wife on the rare occasions when they had cause to speak to each other, but at this moment, she couldn’t stop herself. What _could_ have happened to Henri--he’d been with her all night, and though he’d grown too winded to keep dancing as long as some of the other gentlemen, he’d nonetheless seemed in good health and spirits when he bid her goodnight. Could some accident have befallen him, some sickness gripped him so quickly--

“It is not Henri,” Chloë said, and Dominique pressed a hand to her drumming heart.

“Oh, darling, you gave me such a fright! Are _you_ well?” Chloë looked as unruffled and diamond-bright as she ever did, but then, it would be very like Chloë St. Chinian Viellard to be bleeding from some dreadful wound and never give any sign of it. 

“I am, and I am sorry to frighten you,” Chloë said. “I wanted to speak with you. I know it was foolish to come here at all, but I believe that at this time of day--and on such a dark day….”

 _And in such a dress and veil._ Yes, Chloë had thought it through and planned perfectly. It was extremely unlikely that anyone would see her and recognize that a white woman was visiting the cottage of a _placée_. 

“You are always so clever,” Dominique said. “Please sit down.”

It should have been more awkward than it was--it should have been unthinkable--having her lover’s wife here in her parlor. But Chloë had a way of refusing to allow for awkwardness by refusing to acknowledge it, and as she settled herself on the striped silk settee and folded her small gloved hands in her lap, she looked as fully composed as she did anywhere else Dominique had ever seen her. It gave Dominique rather a dizzy feeling.

“Thérèse will be in in a moment with some cocoa.” Dominique had not instructed her to do so, but if she knew two things, it was Thérèse’s excellent training and her curiosity. 

“I do not need any cocoa,” Chloë said, and wasn’t that only something Chloë would say? It would be rude coming from anyone else, but from Chloë it was a statement of fact that no one could take offense at. At least, no one who knew Chloë. “And I’d rather she didn’t know I was here.”

“Of course!” Dominique went to the door and locked it. That wouldn’t keep Thérèse from eavesdropping, but perhaps she would not recognize Chloë’s voice. 

“And I will stay no more than a minute,” Chloë continued as Dominique sat down in the armchair. “I do not want to cause trouble for you.”

It was a kind thing to say, and not something that most white women would have said to any woman of color, much less her husband’s _placée_. But Chloë would be aware of the kind of gossip that would envelope Dominique if anyone found out. And of course, there was the damage such rumors would do to her own reputation. And Henri’s. 

“Your hair is very beautiful,” Chloë said, and the suddenness of the remark made Dominique gape for just a moment before she remembered her manners.

“Thank you, darling,” Dominique said, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. She had not yet arranged her hair for the day, and it fell down over her shoulders, the ends curling down to the small of her back. Dominique knew exactly how beautiful her hair was and exactly how the light in the room fell on it, bringing out a dozen shades from mahogany to gold. The lamps and candles were always arranged so as to be most flattering when Henri came. 

Still, she couldn’t help but warm at the compliment. It was vanity, but it always did sting a bit to have to sweep up her hair and cover it with a tignon, no matter how stylish. Besides Henri, only her closest friends and family had ever seen her hair. And now Chloë.

 _What a strange pair we are_. Many wives overlooked their husband’s concubines--a few were even grateful for them, since it meant they did not have to bear their husband’s caresses after heirs were secured. But Dominique had never heard even a rumor of a wife and _placée_ who got along.

 _Is that what we do? Get along?_ But the truth was, she _liked_ Chloë. She reminded her a bit of Rose, and a bit of Olympe, too. And maybe, also, a bit of a kind of woman Dominique would have liked to be in another life: unyielding instead of giving, following her intellect instead of her intuition. Not that Dominique could ever imagine being that way. But she admired her, and she had never admired a white woman before.

“I will be candid,” Chloë said, her mind moving to another track so quickly it made Dominique blink--and then press her lips together to keep from smiling, for when was Chloë ever anything but candid? “I am very worried about my cousin Violetta.”

Dominique hid her confusion and said, “Are you?” She could place Violetta Picard, a pretty girl about Chloë’s age with auburn hair and laughing eyes. She had a reputation for being rather dim, like all that clan, but amiable, which was much rarer in the family. 

“She is recently married,” Chloë said, and Dominique did not say, _Well, of course, darling, everyone knows that_. Dominique didn’t think that most of the white Creoles knew just how much their every move was chronicled and circulated by the free colored community. Dominique’s mother Livia had probably known about Violetta Picard’s engagement before Chloë had found out. “To Prosper Livaudais.”

Dominique nodded, keeping her expression placid to reveal nothing about what she knew about Prosper Livaudais. He was Daphne Troyes’s protector, and everyone knew about Daphne’s struggles. Dominique could imagine why Chloë was worried about her cousin, but she still could not fathom why Chloë was telling her about it. 

“He’s beating her,” Chloë said, and a little shudder ran through Dominique at the blunt words. “The brute.” A spasm of anger flashed across Chloë’s face and was banished as quickly as it had arrived, but the arctic coldness of her tone remained. “Violetta is the kindest girl in the world. She’s simple, but that doesn’t matter when she’s as kind as she is. She’s the only one of my cousins that never mocked or ostracized me.”

A flush touched Dominique’s cheeks at the frank way Chloë spoke about her cousins’ cruelty. It was easy to imagine the cool, scholarly little girl that Chloë must have been discomfiting her pack of cousins, whether on the DuQuille or St. Chinian’s side. Dominique knew them to be typical French Creole society girls: concerned with gossip, fashion, dancing, and their children. None of them would have had any idea how to relate to Chloë, and children were always cruel to those who were different.

“I am very sorry to hear that she is being mistreated.” That was the truth--Dominique didn’t like to think of any woman being abused. But Daphne Troyes had been beaten by Prosper Livaudais for six years, since she had first signed her contract with him. If anyone in Violetta’s family had thought to consult any of the free colored community, they would have learned in moments that he was not the kind of man any woman would want to marry. Not that Violetta’s father probably cared. Prosper Livaudais was rich, and unlike most planters, his wealth didn’t seem to have been affected much by the recent economic downturn. To a man like Jean-Pierre Picard, a few bruises on his daughter’s fair skin would be nothing compared to the coup of having Livaudais as a son-in-law. 

“But you are wondering why I’m telling you about it,” Chloë said, and for just a moment, Dominique saw a glint of humor in Chloë’s china-blue eyes and a hint of her impish smile. Her cousins surely didn’t see that humor often, but it was there.

“I admit that I am,” Dominique said. 

“I never know the gossip,” Chloë said, in one of those apparent switches in topic that must confuse her family so much. “But I know that the _placées_ are said to know a great deal about the habits of powerful men.”

Ah. So perhaps Chloë _had_ known that Dominique knew all about Violetta’s marriage. 

“Well, we do hear a few things,” Dominique said. It was more than she would have admitted to any other white woman. 

“I would like to know what you know about Prosper Livaudais. The more...humiliating, the better.”

Dominique blinked at her. “You’re going to blackmail one of the richest men in town?”

“If I can.”

Dominique sank against the back of the chair, thinking this over. A nineteen-year-old girl threatening one of the most powerful men in New Orleans? And yet, if anyone could do it, Chloë could. Very few men would be able to hold firm against her level gaze. 

“He’s not terribly well-liked, but I don’t know anything about him that would be enough to threaten him with.” He wasn’t one of the men she knew kept a _placée_ just for show and instead visited the boys at Madame Bellegarde’s place. He hadn’t murdered anybody, and his gambling habits were no worse than any other man in town’s--and he could afford them better than most. She couldn’t think of a single thing that could ruin him. The fact that he beat his wife and _placée_ certainly wouldn’t.

Most people wouldn’t notice the tightening at the edges of Chloë’s mouth, the barely visible slump of her narrow shoulders. But Dominique knew body language, and she could see Chloë’s disappointment. That disappointment tugged at her heart more than she would have believed possible.

It was a brash plan. To find a way to threaten a powerful man--a way that would not lead to further pain for Violetta or danger to Chloë herself. Even if Livaudais had such a secret, could Chloë wield it? 

And even if she did, and bought physical relief for her cousin, Dominique knew good and well that Livaudais would not be any kinder to his wife. A man threatened with humiliation became furious, and that fury would find an object. Perhaps he would stop hitting her, but that would not transform him into a good husband.

_Even if she turns his hand away from Violetta, the blow will fall on someone else, someone who deserves it just as little._

He already beat Daphne--would he become even more violent with her? Would he take it out on his slaves? None of them had rich and ruthlessly intelligent cousins to look out for them, and the law cared even less for slaves and courtesans than it did for white wives. A man who beat his dependents--whether wife, _placée_ , child, or slave--should be locked up for the rest of his life as far as Dominique was concerned. But his dependents were his property, in various ways and to varying extents, and he could do as he wished with them. There were lines he couldn’t cross--he wouldn’t get away with killing his wife or child--but those lines were few: Dominique had nightmares about poor Sidonie Lalage, about Madame Lalaurie’s attic, which she had never even seen.

Chloë was looking for mercy for her cousin, but that mercy would be bought at a cost, and Dominique knew that there was never any room for justice. Justice rotted at the root here in New Orleans, and the sickly smell of its decay hung over the whole country. She thought of her brother, so hungry for fairness and truth, so determined to channel his anger towards something constructive. Even Benjamin, with his fierce intelligence and endless appetite for truth, never really managed to find that justice. The best he could find was a little breathing space, a little more room, a little more time. Just for a few people, a very few. Not enough to chip away at the mountain of cruelty and oppression that was their world. But Ben did it anyway. So did Olympe, in her own way. Dominique spent everything she had on wresting that space for herself and her daughter. She had never thought she would have the opportunity to buy any for anyone else. 

But Chloë had been kind to Dominique, and Violetta had been kind to Chloë, and Livaudais was the kind of man who would always find someone to rain his violence on anyway. Perhaps--perhaps, he was also the kind of man who, like the characters in those old Greek plays that Rose--and Chloë--liked to read, carried inside himself the seeds of his own destruction. 

“I will see what I can find out,” Dominique said. 

\---

Agnes Pellicot was at Mama’s house when Dominique stopped by the next afternoon. Musette had taken Charmian for a walk as Dominique ran her errands, so it was a good time to stop in at Mama’s. Her heart leapt at her luck when she saw her mother seated at her pie-crust table, drinking cocoa with Agnes, one of the few women in New Orleans who could rival Mama for knowledge. Dominique took the chair closest to the fire and wrapped her cold hands around the pink and green china cup she was offered.

Agnes made a perfunctory inquiry about Charmian’s health, even though if Charmian had so much as sneezed that day, she would already know about it. Once that was out of the way, she turned back to Mama. 

“I tell you, Livia, Laurent Lavigne has sold every single one of his family jewels and replaced them all with paste. Oh, they’re good quality paste--not many would notice--but Bernadette saw Laurent’s mama’s rubies on a lady in Baton Rouge, and you know the paste isn’t so heavy as the real thing. Laurent’s valet told my Marie-Claire that they’re fake for certain.”

Dominique couldn’t stop a little gasp, but Mama dismissed this dramatic announcement the way she did all others; she prided herself on never being shocked by anything. “He’s been selling them off slowly for years, ever since the crop failed in ‘33.” When Agnes opened her mouth to protest, Livia continued smoothly, “But yes, he’s stepped it up in recent months. He’d been holding on to those rubies--they came over with his grandmother after the Revolution--but of course he’s gotten desperate enough that he couldn’t any longer.” 

“When it gets around to all his friends, they’ll be laughing behind his back, and no one will ever lend him money again,” Agnes announced, picking up a beignet with fingers so delicate that no powdered sugar clung to them. “He’ll have a time marrying off those ugly daughters of his.” Agnes leaned back in her chair, her cat that got the cream expression reflecting Mama’s. They were in rare form today, and Dominique knew an opening when she saw one. 

“Oh, auntie, I swear you and Mama could destroy any white man in New Orleans if you had a mind to!”

Mama sniffed at the idea that she would stoop to destroying these _blankittes_ , but Agnes couldn’t help the smug smile and the gleam in her eye. “I pick up a few things here and there.”

“It’s like a game: how would you destroy so-and-so! I could name any name and you’d know his darkest secret!” Dominique clapped her newly warmed hands together. “Oh, let’s play! What do you know about Jean-Paul Corbin?”

Agnes snorted. “A child could destroy Jean-Paul Corbin. Everyone knows what he and Albert Fournier get up to.” Dominique had indeed known that, even as a child, but a self-satisfied Agnes would reveal more.

“This is unbecoming, Dominique,” Mama said, as though she didn’t gossip every day of her life. 

“Oh, Mama, it’s just the three of us. No one will ever know!” She turned back to Agnes. “Who should we do next? I’ll pick a hard one! Oh...what about Prosper Livaudais?”

The smile fell off of Agnes’s face, and she looked almost petulant. “There’s something there. That man has money he shouldn’t have, that’s for certain.”

Dominique’s eyebrows flew up. “But auntie, he has half a dozen plantations and interests in the railroad and in--”

“Oh, I know, I know. But those farms aren’t worth the slaves it takes to run them, and he’s always talked up his railroad interests--he didn’t get in early enough to get so many shares. He does well enough off of that gambling hall of his and probably brings in quite a bit with that racehorse, even in these lean days, but did you see Daphne’s dress at the last ball? And that on top of the wedding he threw not four months ago?”

So Livaudais had a mysterious income, but Agnes didn’t know its source, and that was bothering her. Dominique turned to her mother. “Is it all on credit?”

“If he were in debt, someone would know about it,” Mama said. 

“What if he was borrowing from someone out of town? In Havana or Charleston or New York?” It didn’t seem unreasonable to Dominique that he might get his funding from someone who had no connection to the New Orleans gossip circuit.

“Livaudais hasn’t set one foot further than Milneburgh in years,” Mama said with a sharp jerk of her head so that the emerald and gold silk of her tignon gleamed in the light. Her protests about the game were forgotten; she was as intrigued by this mystery as Agnes was. “And he never sends his secretary anywhere either. No, he has some income stream here in Louisiana, but God knows I don’t know what it is.” 

Dominique didn’t think she’d ever in her life heard her mother confess to not knowing something. Usually, Livia would spin some complex web of insinuations that would leave the impression that she knew but couldn’t be bothered to tell. For her to admit that she didn’t know--she must be quite sure that no one else in New Orleans knew or was likely to ever find out. Dominique’s heart sank.

To cheer up Mama and Agnes (and throw them off the scent), Dominique asked for a few more rounds of her game and found out a few more secrets, but none that would help Chloë. As she excused herself and headed down Rue Burgundy towards her own home, she reflected that the interview had been a success and a failure all at once. It seemed that Livaudais did have a secret. But if Mama couldn’t find out what it was, what hope did Dominique and Chloë have?

At early mass the next morning, Chloë dropped her rosary in the aisle just beside where Dominique knelt. 

“He’s got more money than he should,” Dominique breathed as Chloë bent down. “Impossible to find out more. I’m sorry.”

Chloë straightened, rosary wrapped firmly around her fingers, and walked on. Well, Dominique had done her best. She rose, shook out her dress, and went home to Charmian.

\---

Chloë went to Uncle Veryl’s and stole some of Artois’s clothes. Her uncle kept them in a trunk in Artois’s old room, and it wasn’t difficult to obtain them during a visit. It was the overwhelming scent of the mothballs that brought tears to Chloë’s eyes as she went through the trunk--she had never been one to weep--but her chest ached as she unfolded the waistcoats and jackets her half-brother had worn. She didn’t think of him so very often these days, but when she did, she mostly felt a surge of anger at the sheer _waste_. Anyone with a brain could see that Artois St. Chinian had had much to offer the world; if he had lived and gone to his school in Lyon, he could have built a life for himself that most men of color in New Orleans could never dream of. And she could have written to him; he could have told her of his studies, sent her books--now that she was a married woman in her own house to receive them--shared his insights. Of every blood relation Chloë had ever had, Artois and Uncle Veryl were the only ones she’d ever felt kin to.

Not that she could ever admit as much. Mère would be offended enough at the thought of Chloë admiring her great-uncle; if she so much as mentioned her colored half-brother, Mère would have slapped her across the face--or worse. 

So many times as a child, Chloë had looked down at the bruises blooming on the white of arms, watching as they faded from livid purple to yellow and green. The burn on her wrist had left a scar. She knew what it was like to be helpless against those who hurt her, but even she had been shocked at the sight of Violetta’s face. No wonder her cousin hadn’t wanted to see her. Chloë didn’t feel kin to Violetta either, but she liked her, even if she couldn’t spend long with her before growing furiously impatient with her slowness. When, for the third week in a row, Violetta had refused to see Chloë, claiming she was indisposed, Chloë had simply walked past Violetta’s butler and protesting maid and up the stairs to the bedroom.

The mess of Violetta’s face had shaken her even though she prided herself on being unflappable. The helplessness--the hopelessness--of her childhood had surged back through her and she thought, _I waited all my life to be a married lady so I could do what I want. The things I suffer for that position...and I still can’t do anything at all._

If Violetta had brothers or boy cousins who weren’t more worthless than a sack of meal, perhaps they could have done something. Many a man had challenged another to protect the honor of a sister or cousin; that was the way such things were dealt with in New Orleans. Chloë even briefly thought of asking Henri to step in. But Prosper Livaudais was a man as intimidating as he was wealthy, and she knew her soft husband would not be able to stand up to him with either words or dueling pistols, though she thought he might try if she asked him. He did try to do the things she asked him to do, and she, in turn, tried not to ask him to do things that were beyond his abilities. 

There were uncles aplenty she could consult, and one or two of them might even be useful in this situation. But the truth was, she didn’t want to involve them. She wanted to handle this herself. Both because she trusted her own competence more than anyone else’s, and because of the challenge of the thing. Here was an opportunity to apply her mind to a difficult problem. Such situations were rare enough in Chloë’s life that she would not allow this one to pass. 

There were only two options, Chloë realized laying in bed the night of her visit to Violetta’s, glad that Henri was with Dominique. She could poison Livaudais or she could blackmail him. The question of poison was an interesting one--she would have to research to find out which poison would be undetectable both before and after ingestion; perhaps Rose Vitrac would have the books she needed to consult. Then she would have to think of some way to get the poison into something Livaudais would consume that no one else would. She wouldn’t put anyone else at risk. It would be a challenge, but surely with time she could come up with a workable plan.

But she would rather not resort to murder, however deserved. Chloë did not believe in God, but she did believe in the human right to life, and she would explore other options first. If poison was a woman’s weapon, blackmail could be as well. 

Chloë was no fool; she knew blackmail was a dangerous game. If she did not find iron-clad proof of substantial wrongdoing, she would not be able to force Livaudais to listen to her: he would only become angrier with Violetta, and Chloë would have found herself a new enemy. The anger of a man whose ego was attacked was dangerous and unpredictable, even before you accounted for intelligence, and Livaudais was no fool either. She could not risk speaking unless she had true leverage.

Dominique had said that most men had some secret that could destroy them. Chloë knew of several who did not, but even they had weaknesses. Henri, for instance, had never harmed anyone in his life, but he would do anything to protect Dominique and their daughter. Dominique had said that her brother was a good and righteous man but that he could be pushed in dangerous directions if those he loved were threatened. Chloë didn’t think that Prosper Livaudais loved anyone, and even if he did, she was not about to threaten anyone who did not deserve it. 

But money--rich men loved money as they loved nothing else. As soon as she heard Dominique’s whisper, Chloë had felt her hope leap up like a flame. If she could discover the source of that money, then perhaps she would have enough to approach Livaudais. She could buy out any enterprise he was involved in, threaten any creditors with her own financial retaliation. Chloë still had control of her fortune, and there, at least, she was formidable. 

So she put on Artois’s clothes, snuck out after sunset, and broke into Prosper Livaudais’s office.

It was surprisingly easy. He had probably assumed that no one could get through that high, narrow window, but Chloë was small, and even smaller in britches than she was in a dress. She managed to slither in, to pull down the shades, to light a candle pulled from her pocket. The account books were waiting in a neat row--Livaudais’s secretary was obviously a conscientious man. 

It took hours to go through them all, checking every line to find the smallest irregularity. There was none. In addition to being conscientious, Livaudais’s secretary also seemed to be honest. By the time she was through with the books, her fingers were raw from running them over the pages, her eyes ached, and a knot of pain had tightened at each temple. But she made herself go through the piles of correspondence and notes and legal documents. In all those hundreds of pages of paper, she found nothing.

Nothing except one single word in one otherwise innocuous bill of sale. The sight of it jerked Chloë upright, sending a javelin of pain through her neck, but the excitement she felt was sharper than the pain.

 _It might not mean what you think it means_ , she reminded herself as she straightened the papers, cleaned up the wax, doused the candle. _There could be other ships by that name_. 

But all of her nerves will still tingling as she dropped from the window, as she hurried along the pitch-black streets, as she snuck back into her own home. Just before daybreak, Chloë went to her desk and wrote a note.

\---

The Golden Rose was a great favorite among both the white and colored ladies of fashion in New Orleans. It was a good rendezvous point if one wanted to bump into a _placée_ , Dominique acknowledged, but it was a little more suspicious, she thought, to see Chloë Viellard there. The young Madame Viellard’s clothes were always beautifully made out of the best materials, but she did not enjoy shopping herself and usually had the dressmakers visit her in her home where she could have Henri read to her while she had to stand for fittings. Still, it was less of a risk for Chloë to be seen there than anywhere else they might meet. The note passed from Chloë’s cook Lucy to Thérèse to Dominique, and that afternoon, Dominique dressed in her new turquoise day dress and headed for Rues Chartres. 

Behind a shelf full of bolts of vivid fabric, voices disguised by the chatter of the ladies by the glove table, Chloë told Dominique what she had found out.

“The _Perroquet_?” Dominique echoed, rigid with shock. “That’s one of Captain Chamoflet’s ships!”

“I thought it was,” Chloë said. “I wasn’t certain, but Henri confirmed it for me at breakfast this morning.”

Dominique didn’t need to make sure. Every person from New Orleans to Barataria who had one drop of African blood in their veins knew the name of every ship the slave-smuggler Chamoflet was involved with. Chamoflet mostly dealt in smuggling slaves into the country, but he was also known to deal in free men and women who had been kidnapped. The shop was small and stuffy, but all Dominique could feel was cold.

“You think Livaudais is involved in slave smuggling?” She felt ill, her stomach roiling, a sickly sweat breaking out across her neck. 

“I think it is a possibility. It would explain why his wealth doesn’t seem affected by the depression.”

Yes. Yes, it would explain it. No matter what, there was always a market for slaves. 

“What did the paper say?”

“Nothing anywhere close to incriminating. Just that he had shipped a horse he sold on Chamoflet’s ship. But respectable people don’t work with Chamoflet. Not ever. If he’s working with him in one way, he might be in another. But if there’s proof, he doesn’t keep it at home,” Chloë said. “Before I came to you, I searched that house top to bottom for anything suspicious. There’s nothing. And the office was clean as well.”

For a heartbeat, Dominique’s love of romance resurfaced above her nausea, and she thought of all the novels she’d ever read. “You checked for hidden drawers and secret rooms?” 

“Of course, darling. There was nothing. There’s only one other place I could imagine a man like that keeping incriminating papers.”

Her queasiness returned, Dominique’s eyes narrowed. “His _placée_ ’s house.”

Chloë nodded. “It’s the obvious place.”

Dominique could not deny that, but it brought its own set of problems. She was about to open her mouth to protest when she heard footsteps very close. She spun away from Chloë as another patron came around the corner, and furiously studied the stockings while Chloë and the lady--one of the Widow Redfern’s daughters--exchanged greetings. 

_Slave smuggling. My God._

Dominique jumped at the touch of Chloë’s hand on her arm. The other lady was gone; they were alone again. She lifted her chin and swallowed down the bile in her throat. “Daphne Troyes and I are not close. It will be difficult to search her house.” 

“Search?” Chloë cocked her head to the side in a way that reminded Dominique of her pet finches. “Can’t you ask her to give them to you?”

 _Oh, sweet child._ Dominique was only a handful of years older than Chloë, but sometimes she felt them all acutely. “Why would she agree?”

“It’s in her interests,” Chloë said, as though this were obvious. “If he beats his wife, he must treat his _placée_ just as badly. If he really is involved in slave smuggling, we could get him arrested. Then she would be free of his violence.”

Dominique couldn’t keep the resentment for bubbling up for just a moment, and had to bite it back to keep her voice patient. “Darling. If Livaudais is arrested, Daphne will be without a protector. She will not do anything to jeopardize him.”

Sometimes when Chloë stared myopically, she reminded Dominique very much of Henri. “But if he were in prison, her contract would be void. She could find another protector. One who would not harm her.”

Oh, Lord, how to explain to this girl a life she would never understand? How to make her see that a woman like Daphne Troyes--a woman like Dominique--would always choose economic security through a man who hurt her over an uncertain future?

“Finding a new protector is not simple,” Dominique said. “Especially now, when most men don’t have the money to support their own wives and daughters, much less a _placée_. And Daphne’s mother died last year--she has no one to help her negotiate. It would be very difficult for her to find a replacement. She will not put herself in that position. If there are papers there, I must somehow find them and get them out without her knowing.”

Chloë just looked at her for a long moment, a look that could have been abashed or could have signaled a total lack of understanding. Dominique was good at reading people, but sometimes she was very aware that she and Chloë belonged to different worlds.

“But you’ll try?” Chloë said at last.

Dominique thought of how many times she had almost lost her brother to slave-smugglers, the kind who captured free men and ignored their papers. One night, after too much negus, Ben had leaned back in his chair, slid his arm around Rose, and confessed, “Every single day, I’m scared. Every single time I leave my house, I think, ‘They could grab me today.’ Every single time I see advertisements in the newspaper for slaves or pass an auction block, I think of how much I’m worth to a white man. I think my body even remembers it when I sleep. It took me ten years in Paris to learn to feel safe, and then I come back here and all the fear comes pouring back.”

Though her dark-skinned sister or her brother, who looked like a fieldhand, were in greater danger, Dominique herself was at risk, too. It could happen to her. To Gabriel or Zizi-Marie. To Thérèse or M’sieur Emilien, who ran Dominique’s favorite chocolate shop. It could happen to any of them at any time. It could even, one day, happen to Charmian. 

“I will try.”

\---

For once, there were no bruises on Daphne Troyes’s face, and the sight made Dominique hesitate. There usually were, at least a faded shadow of an old hurt marring Daphne's copper skin. Perhaps Lavaudais had turned his fury entirely on his wife. If so--if Daphne was escaping from abuse for the first time in years--Dominique wasn’t certain she could go through with this. Violetta Picard deserved Lavaudais’s blows no more than Daphne did, but no matter how fond of Chloë she was, Dominique didn’t know whether she could redirect the man’s anger back at another _placée_. If things became too bad, surely Violetta could go home to her parents or become one of those ladies who traveled from the house of relative to relative so that she never had to be at home. Daphne had no such exit routes. 

And yet it was _slave smuggling_ , if it was anything at all. Surely the suffering of many human beings sold outweighed the pain of one young lady? But Dominique _knew_ Daphne. She saw her at mass, at balls, at the shops on Rue Chartres, on strolls in the Place d’Armes. If next time she saw Daphne her face was marked, would she be able to live with herself?

Dominique’s mind was running over this problem as she chattered to Daphne over coffee and pralines. Though she didn’t visit Daphne so very often--there was no ill-blood between them, but neither were they close--she did often enough that the other woman wasn’t suspicious. Dominique inquired after poor Liane, complained about the weather, complimented the buttercup hue of Daphne’s day dress, told a charming story about Charmian and the cat Voltaire, passed along the news about the Lavigne rubies, asked for Daphne’s opinion of a bonnet she was considering buying, agreed to request Ben to play a certain piece at the next Blue Ribbon ball, discussed the price of sugar, and all the while, she turned the question over and over in her head. If she was going to search Daphne’s home, she had to do it _now_ ; it would be suspicious if they returned again this month to call. Her plan was as perfected as it could be, but she could not bring herself to set it in motion.

Until Daphne leaned forward to offer another praline, and the neckline of her dress slipped a bit lower on her shoulder. In the moment before she straightened and adjusted her shawl, Dominique saw purple marks that could only be the fingerprints of a large man, and inwardly sighed in relief. 

And immediately felt a surge of guilt. What kind of terrible person was she, that she would be _relieved_ to see that another woman was being hurt? But no, she wasn’t relieved that Daphne was being hurt, of course she wasn’t. She was relieved that her way was clear. Surely there was nothing wrong in that, so long as no one ever knew?

Whether there was or not, she didn’t have time to fret over it now. With a gracious word, she rose as though to leave and immediately fell back into her chair, moaning. 

“Dear, what is it?” Daphne asked, hurrying around the small table. “Are you unwell?”

“Oh, it’s the faintness,” Dominique said, pressing her fingers to her temple. She let her voice go strained and hoped that her face looked as tense as it had in the mirror when she’d practiced last night. “It has been bothering me lately, I couldn’t tell you why.” Daphne would assume she was pregnant, but that was all right. Women became pregnant and their pregnancies disappeared all the time. 

“I’ve a vinaigrette--I’ll just call Cécile--”

“Darling, you’re too kind, but they just make me more ill.” Dominique’s lower lip trembled, and Daphne’s brow furrowed in worry. “Do you mind if I lay down a moment?”

“Of course not.” Daphne hurried over to help her from her chair. “Cécile! Where is that girl? I’ll have her bring some water and some bourbon and--watch your head, dear.”

Dominique draped herself over the settee--blessedly close to the elegant escritoire that was the only place in the room where incriminating documents might be kept. Could it be that simple?

“Cécile! Come here this instant!” Daphne spread Dominique’s shawl over her. “Are you certain there’s nothing I can do? What do you usually do when this happens?”

Eyes closed, Dominique attempted a tense smile. “I use Mama’s poultice.”

“What kind is it? Perhaps I--”

“Oh, no, darling. Mama makes it herself. Her house and mine are the only ones in town where you could find it.”

“We must send to your mother, then, and have her bring some immediately.”

Mama lived only one street over. Normally, it was nothing to offer; Daphne would send her maid. Except that, judging by the gilt clock on the mantel and how Cécile had not yet appeared, Daphne’s maid had been lured away fifteen minutes ago by a willing Thérèse who had as much a taste for intrigue as she did a skill for getting stains out of lace. Daphne would have to go herself.

Dominique lifted limpid eyes. She so rarely did this kind of acting on another woman; it was gratifying to know it worked as well as it did on a man. “Oh, darling, would you? I hate to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble,” Daphne said firmly. “I’ll be back in just a moment. Lie there and don’t move, and if Cécile comes in, ask for some bourbon.”

Dominique caught the other woman’s hand and pressed it. _I will do whatever I can to help you find another protector. I swear it._ “Thank you, darling.”

As soon as she heard the sound of Daphne’s pattens on the cobblestones outside, Dominique threw off the shawl and flew over to the escritoire.

When Daphne returned twenty minutes later, empty-handed and full of apologies--”Your mama wasn’t home, dearest, and neither was your maid to let me in--I’m _so_ sorry!”--Dominique was back on the settee, looking ill but resolute.

“I’ll go home right away,” she said. “Is that your Cécile I hear coming in?”

“Cécile, where _have_ been? I needed you desperately and you’ve inconvenience Mamzelle Viellard awfully--”

“No, no, Daphne darling, don’t scold her. If she’ll just help me home, all will be set right, and we’ll forget this ever happened, no?” 

Even pretending to be weak and in pain, Dominique was charming enough to get Daphne to agree not to punish Cécile, which was a great relief to Dominique. She leaned heavily on the maid’s arm on her way home, careful with every movement not to let the papers under her skirts crackle. 

When she was on her own bed and had sent Cécile home, Dominique pulled them out and looked at them for the first time. And gasped in dismay.

“What is it?” Thérèse asked eagerly, coming into the room. “You found nothing?”

“I don’t know what I found,” Dominique answered, holding out the papers to Thérèse. “We’ll send them to Chloë anyway, but p’tite, I don’t know if even she can make heads or tails of this.”

\---

It took almost a week for Chloë to break the code. During that time, she left her desk only to eat and sleep. By Thursday, Mère was furious with her for missing fetes and neglecting her visitation duties. Safe in her position as the wife of Henri Viellard, Chloë now experienced her mother’s storms as an interesting phenomenon and nothing more; no matter how much she roared, Chloë was not buffeted. 

Henri wandered in early on and blinked down at the spread of papers with interest. “Do you need help, _mon amour_?” he asked, resting his large hand on Chloë’s shoulder. It was as much as he touched her except on the nights when he set his mind to producing an heir. She still dreaded his large form over her, but she didn’t shrink back when he took her arm or her hand anymore. She could accept his affection now that she knew he was fond of her; he reserved his romantic feelings entirely for Dominique, which pleased Chloë very much. 

Chloë reached up and touched Henri’s hand; unlike anyone else in her life, he didn’t mind when her fingers were ink-stained. “I would rather do this myself, dearest.”

He nodded and squeezed her shoulder before wandering off to examine some new insect specimens, and Chloë turned back to the labyrinth of letters.

By the time she dragged herself into bed each evening, her eyes and shoulders and lower back ached and her fingers were cramped, but she fell into sleep and rose the next morning eager to get back to work. She was torn between a desire to break the code as quickly as possible and an equally strong urge to draw out the process. Recognizing that the latter was a selfish impulse when her cousin’s wellbeing was in danger, she set herself to a quick pace tempered by careful revision.

This did, however, raise a moral question. Did she only want to help her cousin, or had she been excited by the intellectual challenge? After considering the matter as she ate the meal that Lucy had sent up to her on a tray, she came to the conclusion that her motives were indeed mixed, but that this was not a moral failing. Even if helping Violetta had entailed something unpleasant, she still would have tried her best. It was merely fortunate that doing the right thing also involved the opportunity to apply her mind in ways she most relished.

The first letter she established was E, of course, and from there the whole chain of the alphabet unraveled over the next day. By the time she had enough letters to begin the translation, she had gone all over cold with excitement. But her hand, though cramped, was steady as she wrote down the words that had been hidden in a jumble of characters and numerals. As she started, she felt mostly satisfaction for each letter that she wrote, the joy of accuracy, but as she unlocked more and more of Lavaudais’s secrets, the chill of triumph coalesced into a frigid mixture of disgust and anger. 

When she rose from her desk, papers clutched in her hands, she should have been exhausted, but she felt only that hard, diamond-bright pulse of victory and rage. It was time to visit her cousin-in-law.

\---

“What _is_ it now, Pompey?”

The butler bowed apologetically from his spot in the doorway. “It’s young Madame Viellard, sir.”

“Alone?”

“Her husband and another gentleman are with her, but they haven’t gotten out of the carriage.”

“Well, let her up to see Violetta if she wishes.”

“She’s requesting to see you.”

Prosper Lavaudais set down his pistol and rag. “To see me?” he echoed. “What in hell for?”

“She says it is a business matter, sir.”

Ah. Well. That had possibilities. Everyone in town knew that Violetta’s half-grown cousin had a cashbox for a heart and coffers as deep as any in New Orleans. Very few other women would approach a man--even a family member--on matters of business. Widows did, sometimes, but a married woman, even one who owned her own property and held the purse-strings, usually sent her husband or son or brother to have these sorts of conversations. But then, that useless lump Henri Viellard couldn’t even pretend to be competent enough for that sort of errand, so of course Chloë had come herself. And whatever Chloë Viellard propositioned would be sound. 

“Send her in.”

But he couldn’t let some little slip of a girl think that she could waltz in here and demand to see him on a whim, so he picked up his pistol and went back to polishing the set. He’d dueled three men with these antique pistols, winged two, killed one. Not setting them aside would remind Chloë that he was a man who was to be respected.

When she appeared in the doorway, he was taken by the thought that he always had when he saw her: the girl was pretty, no doubt, in an untouchable kind of way, but whether the childishness of her figure or the calculating glitter of her eyes--so unbecoming in a woman--was more off-putting, he couldn’t say. All he knew was that he’d never lay a finger on a little miss like that. 

“Well, Cousine Chloë?” he said as she sat in the seat Pompey pulled out for her. Her back, as always, was ramrod straight; her hair and dress smooth as glass. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s rather what I can do for you,” Chloë said, the girlishness of her voice at odds with the briskness of her tone. “I came to offer you some sound advice.” 

That was presumptuous, but still, Lavaudais liked the sound of possibility, so he let it pass and motioned with his rag for her to continue.

“I believe it would be most wise of you to buy a ticket on the first ship out.”

Lavaudais dropped the little brush he’d been using and stared at her. “What?” Was this some kind of odd joke? A strange segue into telling him that there was some fortune to be made in Paris that he would have to travel for?

“You could, of course, stay here. But I expect Lieutenant Shaw and his men are in the Barataria, picking up your secretary and Captain Chamoflet right now. I suppose you can hope their loyalty to you will cause them to lie about your involvement, but I would not count on it.”

A chill went down Lavaudais’s spine, sharp as the look in Chloë’s eyes. When he spoke, he did not recognize the raw sound of his own voice. “What the fucking hell have you done?”

Chloë did not flinch at the crudity or the violence in his voice. “I have done what I had to do. Nothing else would get you to stop beating my cousin, would it? Whether you run or you’re arrested, Violetta will get to go home to her parents. Even if you somehow escape justice, Uncle Jean-Pierre won’t send her back to you, not after it’s known in New Orleans that you worked with Chamoflet. Your place in society is lost. I expect, if you do run, you will find some woman somewhere else to beat. I am sorry for her, but I can do nothing about that. Violetta will be safe, and that is all I can do.”

“You _bitch_.” For a long volcanic moment, Lavaudais considered picking up the other pistol, the one that was still loaded, and shooting Chloë Viellard in her porcelain-doll face. As through a red mist, he could see that haughty little head crack open, broken like an egg. Her neck was even tinier than Violetta’s or Daphne’s; he knew how easily his hands could span it.

“Perhaps,” Chloë said. “But better a bitch than a bastard.”

Lavaudais’s large hands slapped down on the table with such force that the pistols clattered, and the roar he let out would have frightened another man. But Chloë sat there looking at him, face blank, but something gloating in her eyes. He had never wanted to hurt a woman so badly.

Her head cocked to the side in a mechanical motion. “Alas, I am too late in coming. That will be Lieutenant Shaw’s men here to arrest you too.” Lavaudais couldn’t hear the arrivals at his front door over the roar in his ears, but he had no reason to doubt her. She stood with her controlled grace and ran a hand over the shell-pink silk of her skirt. 

“It was most obliging of you,” she said, voice crisp as winter, “to be involved in something so very criminal.”

And then she turned on her heel and walked out the door. By the time she reached it, Lavaudais was out the study window and running along the porch roof. 

He did not get far. 

\---

The verdict was announced on a bright April morning. Spring had come early, and while ladies could not attend the trial, Gabriel, who had lingered on the steps of the court since dawn, had run straight to Mama’s house with the news. Ben let out a whoop and swept up Dominique in a hug, then leaned over to kiss his wife. Even Olympe smiled her close-mouthed smile, though she and Mama were pretending they weren’t in the same room. 

“It baffles me how someone figured out Livaudais was involved with Chamoflet,” Mama announced when the exclamations died down, as close to a question as she ever came. “That flea-bitten American creature couldn’t have done it. Lavaudais was wily. Years, they worked together, and no one suspected a thing. Was it you, Ben?”

“It was not, ma’am,” Ben said, face solemn. Rose lifted an eyebrow and did not look in Dominique’s direction; Dominique took a sip of lemonade. If Mama knew a word of it, the whole town would know by nightfall. Perhaps she would tell Olympe later. 

“Mama,” Dominique said. “Daphne will need someone to help her negotiate her new contract. She’s going to sign with Henri’s cousin Florent.” A man with a face like a hound dog’s and significantly less money that Lavaudais had had, but he wouldn’t hurt Daphne, and she would not starve. Perhaps she wouldn’t even have to sell her jewels. “Perhaps you could help her.”

“And why would I do something like that for Daphne Troyes?” 

Dominique had expected as much, and she was ready with a sweet smile. “Because if you don’t, I will tell Bernadette Metoyer the name of that millner in Marseilles you ordered your last bonnet from.”

Ben managed to keep a straight face then, but later as he escorted Dominique and Charmian down to the Place d’Armes, he roared with laughter. “I should have known that the only one who would ever be able to put Livia Levesque in her place was her own blood. You’re a rare one, Minou.” 

Dominique glowed under the praise from the brother who she suspected still thought of her as a child most of the time. 

“How does it feel,” he continued, “to scrape out a little bit of justice?”

Dominique shook her head, her curls rustling around her cheeks. “You and I both know that even with a guilty verdict, he won’t see a day in prison.”

“That’s so,” Ben admitted. “But he won’t be able to build his life again here in New Orleans.”

“He’ll go somewhere else. Men like that always end up with money again, no matter how far they fall. He’ll find some other woman to hurt.”

“Yes. I imagine so.”

Or maybe he didn’t see her so much as a child anymore, for he didn’t try to comfort her or reassure her with pretty lies. The old strain lines that were so familiar appeared around his mouth and stayed there until Charmian tugged on his arm. Then with a smile, he swept her up onto his strong shoulder, and she giggled with glee to be so high. Dominique was tilting her parasol back to watch her daughter when she saw a lady in spring green on a nearby bench. Dominique wandered in that direction, pausing at a rose bush to admire the blossoms.

“How is Madame Lavaudais?” she asked the closest bloom.

“Well, and staying with her sister Aceline,” Chloë informed the book in her hands. “And Daphne?”

“I believe she will be all right,” Dominique said. 

Dominique let her eyes fall closed, relishing the sound of Charmian’s silver laughter against the backdrop of Ben’s rumbling chuckle. She tilted her head back and let the sunshine touch her face for just a moment. Like all winters, this one had been long.

“Violetta tells me that he probably won’t be in jail long, if at all,” Chloë said, and there was anger and disbelief tinging her voice. 

Dominique hummed and lifted her parasol again. “He’ll hurt someone else. Somewhere else.”

“It shouldn’t be like that,” Chloë said. “He broke the law. We proved it. There should be justice.”

Dominique risked one glance directly at her. She had never seen Chloë’s face so tense. Were those dark shadows under her eyes? From the way Chloë gripped her book, this was eating at her, and had been for some time. 

“There should,” Dominique agreed. “My best to you, darling.”

She left Chloë and her simmering anger to cross over in the sunshine. 

_There should be justice._

There should. But Dominique would take what she could get.

But the time she reached her daughter, shrieking as her uncle swung her high into the air, Dominique was smiling again.

**Author's Note:**

> My knowledgeable beta informs me that the phrase "get along" was not used till several decades after this story takes place, but I hope readers will overlook the anachronism.


End file.
